Rescue
by katriel1987
Summary: He's like a guardian angel with a government-issue gun. She almost laughs at the thought.


**Title:** Rescue  
**Author:** katriel1987  
**Rating: **T for vague violence & creepy thoughts  
**Warnings:** Ambiguity regarding the survival of a major character  
**Notes:** After years of no fanfiction, of course the one thing I _had_ to write was for a show that's been off the air almost four years.  
**Disclaimer:** Numb3rs isn't mine and never was. I just miss it. A lot.

* * *

The agent with the gun goes soft the instant he sees Ella.

"Hey, hey," he says, gentle-voiced, his aim shifting to the floor. "You okay, sweetie? Are you hurt?"

Ella shakes her head, arms wrapped around her chest. The agent lowers his gun further, steps forward and offers her a hand. "It's okay now," he says. "We're gonna get you out of here." His eyes are wide and dark and earnest. The yellow _FBI_ on his vest glows in the light streaming through the dirty window.

He's like a guardian angel with a government-issue gun. She almost laughs at the thought.

Ella uncurls herself and steps forward, reaching out to take the agent's hand. She hunches her shoulders, puts a tremble in her fingers, looks down at the floor.

When she slides her .38 Special up under the edge of the agent's vest and pulls the trigger, he never sees it coming. He doesn't know until the _pop,_ until a bullet rips up through his torso at an angle.

He stumbles, choking. He tries to raise his gun, but Ella takes it from his hand. He's heavy and she's small for her age, but she still manages to slow his fall, easing him down to the concrete.

"What," he says, his voice ragged and broken. Blood bubbles at his lips. God only knows what damage the bullet did, what path it took as it bounced around inside him. Ella wishes she could dismantle him and see, but others will be here soon. She doesn't have time.

She sits back and looks at him, her fingers curled loosely around his gun and hers. She could kill him now. Pop his head like a balloon. She should; it's logical. If he somehow survives, they'll know about her for sure.

But...

He's breathing with his whole body now, throwing the strength of every muscle behind a process that's supposed to be easy and automatic. Bood rattles in his throat. His fingers scrabble at the floor and he arches his back and _breathes,_ through the blood and pain.

He's _tough._ She feels a spark of admiration.

"You shouldn't blame yourself," she says. "Natural to assume I'm a victim. A girl the right age, huddled in this filthy place—and I'm a good actress, if I do say so myself. I played Titania two years in a row."

The agent's eyes fix on her face, wide and desperate and _angry._ He hears her. Dying, clawing in every breath with force of will alone, and he's still listening. Oh, she _likes_ him.

"See, here's where it all went wrong," Ella says gently. "I don't even think you knew Chris Martens _had_ a daughter. Your picture was so incomplete that you couldn't do anything _but_ screw up. Too little information, Agent—it's a _killer._" She snickers. Her dad would roll his eyes, if he were here, but he'd be fond about it.

Ella pats the agent's chest. He chokes, shudders, and goes on breathing. She studies him thoughtfully. Sometimes she has impulses—her dad calls them _sentimental,_ but he indulges her. She doesn't think the impulses are sentimental so much as _curious._ She likes people who are interesting. She likes to see what they will do.

She takes his radio and says, "Your agent in the warehouse is damaged. You should probably do something about that." She holds the radio up to his face so that it catches the desperate rattle of his breathing.

Setting the radio on his chest, she says, "So long, Agent. You hang in there."

By the time his people come for him, she's gone.

* * *

The agent who catches her, three months later, has cold dark eyes and a face like a hawk. He looks disappointed when she puts the gun down.

"Well, hello," Ella says, with her face smashed into the side of a car.

He jerks her arms up harder than necessary. "You shot a friend of mine. I don't like when people do that."

"Did he live?" Ella asks as the agent spins her around to face him.

He isn't going to tell her, but that's okay. She can read it in his eyes.

Flexing her wrists against the cold metal, Ella starts laughing.


End file.
